Night Terrors
by Sanguine Angel
Summary: A short story that I wrote about Akecheta Takoda, one of my old RP characters. Once a Traditionalist he forsake his ways and life to become a Mega Juicer after everything he loved was destroyed by the Coalition...


Outside his window, rain drives itself to the ground with driving force, audible even from his secluded apartment on Octagon's second floor. It's rhythmic comings and goings would be lulling for many, but this night, the man lies awake; totally unable to reach the critical point of relaxation that is required to fall unconscious. Even his bio-comp seemed reluctant to assist him; refraining from injecting that all-important dose of liquid sedative that would give him the release that he craved.

Frustration. He rolled onto his chest, flinging the ineffectual pillow had been beneath his head to the floor with disgust, folding his hands beneath his forehead, forcing his eyes to close. This always happened. He required only three hours of sleep a night, but each of those three hours was a battle to aquire -- a battle that was growing progressively hard as the days and weeks ticked on. It was one of the prices he paid, he knew, for his enhanced body. But, was it worth it? He could not answer the question. His thoughts felt dulled for some reason, and his awareness of what was around him suddenly half-there. Indeed, he did not even notice that the window was open; rainwater splashing over his bare back.

At once, his bio-comp finally detected the imbalance of adrenaline and sleep chemicals in his body, blasting some narcotic into his veins. At once then, he slipped into a state of half-consiousness -- the machine never truly letting him sleep. This half consciousness was sleep itself, but not wakeness, either. And equally at once, a voice was heard in his head, a middle-age man screaming orders. "Kill Them! Kill them all! Filthly Savages!" An image flashed into his head -- one that he had never saw in real life, but had imagined so many times. It was an image of violence; and of death -- a company of Coalition Troops raining fire from their weaponry upon a small settlement of his people, burning away homes, women, men and children alike -- his family. A pair of Spirit Warriors were making a valiant stand against a towering metal behemoth that stood upon spider-like legs, it's railguns tearing their bodies in half.

The image changed then, to the twisted face of a child that had become cursed; taken and changed by the bloodsucking plague that had inhabited Fort Dakota. Barely ten years old, she snarled at him and his comrades with her grossly oversized canine teeth. He had his spear poised, ready to drive the wooden weapon into her heart -- but he hesitated. Could he kill a child? Even one so twisted and cursed as she? And in that moment, she attacked -- both of his friends falling downwards, crimson lines rent in their clothing and flesh from her claw-like fingernails. Tears stung his face as he struck out, blindly.

A white flash later, another scene was before his eyes -- this time of himself as a child, many years earlier -- living his simple life as a traditionalist Sioux. It had been so simple then, even living on the Bug's Backdoor, until the deadheads came. His lips, even in his sleep, drew into a feral snarl as once again, his drug-enduced sleep forced him to relive the image that he hated, and feared the most. Each time he was forced to see it, it hurt, and stung even more. It was the image of returning home to see his parents; his family, only to find the settlement burned to the ground and their bodies left to decay. And then, he felt -- as he always did, what it had felt like to feel something snap inside of him, the decision made that would change the rest of his life. He went through 'the process', and came out of it feeling like God. He had killed the Deadhead Bastard who had ordered this to happen in his sleep, but it brought him no solace; no catharsis. But before he finished the thought, the image changed once again..

He felt instantly uncomfortable. Before him was the shape of a tall, thin man; his skid a ruddy red, like Talon's own. He wore the simple armour of a traditionalist, and carried a great tomahawk; feathers hanging downwards from it. His face was charismatic, and angry. Horribly, terribly, angry, as he lifted his free hand to point it at the Juicer. "Akecheta..." He said, speaking in his native Sioux tongue, the wind howling around him with his anger. "You.... have betrayed me! Betrayed us!" Talon shook his head. "I am called Talon, now. Akecheta is a name that I left beh..." "SILENCE, FOOL! Do you realize the magnitude of what you have done? You have betrayed me! Betrayed your family, your HERITAGE! YOU ARE NOTHING!" The man's tomahawk flashed out, and Talon felt a sharp, stinging pain across his chest and then...

His eyes opened, breath pounding in his chest. There was a terrible, utter lack of strength to his muscles. He felt weak, slow, and vunerable. The Juice -- it was not flowing. The feeling was terrible, half because of how he felt, half because he knew now just how addicted to this chemical cocktail he was. There would be no going back, it was not like he thought. He could not just....live this a few years, and drop it at the snap of a finger. No, he could not do that. Suddenly, the vunerability felt overwhelming; crushing, something that he could not stand. He turned in his bed, legs uncoiling as he threw himself out the open window into the rain with a scream of rage, and to his shame, terror. At once, the juice began to flow; sliding down his limbs like a blessed, welcome warmth, the world slowing down around him; becoming less fierce, easier to cope with. He had time to close his eyes, and sigh in relief before he felt the need to brace for his landing; which was accomplished easily, the Juicer dropping into a crouch; one hand upon the ground to absorb the shock of his landing.

He looked up, to find not five feet away, a homeless man sitting in the rain beside a dumpster, staring at the spectacle of a man who threw himself from a second story window, clad only in his boxers. Talon sneered back at him, feeling invunerable once again, at last. "What are you lookin' at, Buddy?" He snarled in the nastiest voice he could muster as he turned to walk around the building -- heading for the main entrance.


End file.
